


Would You Smooch A Ghost?

by Rockinmuffin



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Gender-neutral Reader, Humor, POV Second Person, Post Pacifist Ending, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5125325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rockinmuffin/pseuds/Rockinmuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which you learn there are no winners in the game of love.  Especially when it’s a game show hosted by Mettaton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would You Smooch A Ghost?

**Author's Note:**

> So, when I asked which stories you guys wanted to see from me, the two top picks were Mettaton game show and another Grillbz sequel. Enjoy the fab robot. I'll try to start working on some Grill-baby love soon.

“Welcome, Darlings and Gentledarlings, to another love-packed installment of Would You Smooch A Ghost?! The nation’s top-rated dating show in which we set up a human with one of our eligible monster bachelors. I’m your handsome and charismatic host, Mettaton!” The robot pauses to allow for the thunderous applause and raucous hollering coming from the audience. No less than three pairs of lacy underwear are tossed onto the stage. “But enough about me. Let’s meet our fabulous contestant!”

You scream obscenities into the cloth gag tied around your mouth as you’re unceremoniously dropped from the rafters to appear on stage. Thankfully, the thick rope tied around your body in a cocoon of twine acts as a bungee and prevents you from hitting the ground with a bone-shattering impact, though it _does_ give you an awful case of vertigo as the forces of gravity and laws of physics work together to jerk you up and down. You fight off a wave of nausea as a giant square robot with a light-up panel for a face wheels its way over to you.

“Today’s contestant is a desperately lonely shell of a human being whose only preference in a potential partner can be quoted as _existent and preferably alive_. Their hobbies include watching TV, living in their own filth, and lying in their bed late at night while they contemplate their own meaningless existence!”

Okay, _rude_.

“But don’t just take it from me, lovelies!” The robot turns to face you. Well, if you can consider an LED screen and a bunch of flashing buttons a face. “Human, why don’t you tell us a little more about yourself?”

The second the gag is untied, you stretch out your neck so the microphone is pressed to your mouth and shout, “Please, someone help, I’m here against my will!”

But instead of anyone helping you, the studio audience erupts in an explosion of hoots and cheers.

“Please, I just want to go home!” The cheering grows even louder. “What the hell is _wrong_ with you people?!”

The robotic TV host chuckles as he pulls back his microphone. “Looks like our contestant has a flair for the dramatics, huh? I love it! Keep that up and you might even give _me_ a run for my money, kiddo!” One of Mettaton’s arms extends to playfully pinch the fat of your cheek with enough force to bruise.

“Ow! Son of a BLEEP!” You blink at the unexpected interruption of your cursing. Well, say what you want about monster TV shows but their censors are top-notch.

“Spunky, too! Whichever one of our bachelors is selected will be one lucky monster. Speaking of,” Mettaton twirls dramatically to face the cameras, “Let’s say hello to tonight’s bachelors!”

The robot wheels to the other side of the stage. You crane your neck and attempt to chew off your restraints as he addresses the audience.

“Bachelor One is incredibly popular and an all-around likeable guy! Well, according to him. He lives in his mother’s basement and needs a ride home after the show!”

You sputter a bit as you try to scrape a piece of hair off your tongue before you get right back to chomping.

“Bachelor Two is dried-up husk of a nineteen-year-old monster living the dream of selling MTT-brand Glamburgers to the public. He loves his job and serving with a smile, so _SMILE_ , you piece of living garbage, you’re on national television, for King Asgore’s sake!”

You think you hear the sound of a metal hand backhanding the fleshy cheeks of someone’s face but you can’t be too sure. Most of your focus is currently on the ropes binding you.

“Bachelor Three is a successful entrepreneur who owns their own snail ranch! Their hobbies include being a spooky DJ and lying on the floor pretending to be garbage.” The robot breaks from his speech long enough to blow a kiss to the audience with his… not-lips. “Give it up for our bachelors!”

There’s another burst of applause and then the robot directs some of his attention back to you. When Mettaton scoots his way back over to your side of the stage, you’re about a quarter through the first rope and beginning to taste blood.

“For all our viewers out there tuning in for the first time, this is how the show works: our contestant asks the bachelors a series of personal questions and, based on their answers, our contestant will pick their soul mate and give them a big ol’ smooch right here, on live television, in front of everybody! That’s right; we’re talking about some steamy lip on lip, snout, beak, etcetera action!”

Fireworks explode from somewhere overhead and the audience goes wild. You, meanwhile, scrunch your nose at the thought of what lip on etcetera action might entail.

“Contestant,” the robot turns back to you, “What is your first question for Bachelor One?”

“Do I really have to do this?”

“Only if you want to get out of here alive!” he answers enthusiastically.

While the sweet release of death is a tempting alternative to participating in this special brand of idiocy, you _do_ want to get out of this thing alive. You have too much to live for. You still have to catch up on, like, _ten_ different TV shows on Netflix.

You wiggle in place but your restraints do not budge. Defeated, you heave out a deep sigh before resigning yourself to the fact that, unless you suddenly develop powers of limitless strength, you’re stuck playing along. “Bachelor One,” you force the words out between grit teeth, “How good are you at untying knots?”

“I don’t like to brag or anything,” comes a whining, nasally voice that sounds like it likes nothing more than to brag, “But I’m kind of the best when it comes to that. Like, I was in the boy scouts and our scout leader sucked hard at it but then I just started tying and untying knots no sweat. I was so good they, like, made me president of the scouts.”

“Cool story, bro. Care to give a demonstration?”

“Nah. I don’t really feel like it right now.”

It’s just as well, you suppose, because Bachelor One sounds like a tool. “Second verse, same as the first. Bachelor Two, how handy are you with knots?”

“What’s the point of trying to escape?” sounds a voice that rasps with the grizzled experience of a man who has seen all the horrors that the world has to offer yet also squeaks with the pubescence of a teenager who thinks they know everything. “You won’t get very far. Take it from me, kid; life is a lot easier to endure when you realize that hope is dead and we helped kill it.”

“Jesus Chirst, dude.” You take another moment to try and process what’s just been said to you but it hurts your head and your soul. “…Jesus _Christ_ ,” you repeat.

“Ha! Nice try human,” the robot wags its finger at you, “But you can’t see any of the bachelors until you’ve made your choice, no matter how clever you think you are. Now go ahead and ask your next question.”

You’re disappointed your little trick didn’t work, but you stay determined. “Bachelor Three, how likely are you to help me out right now?”

The third bachelor’s voice is so wispy and soft-spoken that you can hardly hear them over the mechanical whirring of Mettaton’s hardware and the heavy asthmatic breathing of Bachelor One. “I… I’d like to help you… But I’d probably just get in the way.”

You raise any eyebrow at that. While they didn’t agree to help you, they didn’t say _no_ either. Bachelor Three might just be your ticket out of here.

“Wow! What a great selection of bachelors! How can our contestant possibly choose from such a group of hot studs?!”

As Mettaton hams it up on stage, more fireworks shoot out—much closer to you this time around—and you hiss as the loud burst of sound makes your ear pop.

“Contestant, ask your next question!”

“Okay, two part question: do any of you have a cell phone with you and, if you do, how likely are you to call the police right now?”

“What was that contestant? Did you just ask our bachelors if they were a Nice Cream cone, what flavor would they be?!?!”

“What? _No_. I just want—”

But your protests are cut off by a big cartoony robot hand smooshing against your mouth and painfully smacking against your front teeth.

“Bachelor One,” continues the robot, “What Nice Cream flavor are _you_?”

No. You can’t do this. Vaguely, in the back of your mind, you can hear Bachelor one droning on and on about why he’s Rocky Road, but you don’t give it your attention. You _refuse_. There are a lot of horrible things you’re willing to put up with in your life; taxes, bad puns, people who talk in the movie theater; but crappy ice-breaker questions are where you draw the line.

There’s only one way to bring this to an end.

Maneuvering your face so that Mettaton’s thumb is only jabbing uncomfortably into the corner of your lip, you shout, “I’ve come to a decision!”

“What, _already_?” For a robot that doesn’t have a proper face, Mettaton does a pretty good job of pulling off a pout. “But we haven’t even gotten to the lightning round! Did I mention that the lightning round includes real lightning?”

That… actually sounds kind of cool. Still, you press on, if only because you realize there’s a good chance that _you’re_ the one who would be struck by lightning. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve already made my choice.”

“Look, darling, that’s not how the game works. We still have a good twenty minutes worth of air time to fill.” The robot reaches to pinch your cheek again but your teeth snap for his fingers when they get close to your face. “The good people here have paid to see a show and that’s exactly what they’re going to get.”

A show, huh? Alright. If it’s a show he wants, then it’s a show he’ll get.

“ALAS!” you say in your best acting voice which ends up sounding like a third grader in their first school play. “I cannot continue with this charade, cruelly leading the other bachelors on, because I am already head-over heels IN LOVE. Why, when I think of my ONE TRUE LOVE, my whole body loses control. My stomach turns. My heart palpitates. My sweat glands glisten. Oh, if I have to spend a moment longer without them, I will surely DIE.”

Somehow, against all odds, the crowd eats it up. They chant and shout; one especially lively member of the audience rips off their shirt and starts beating at their chest before security escorts them off the premises. You simultaneously blame and thank television for dumbing down the world’s population.

Mettaton, Attention Whore Extraordinaire, immediately perks up at the audience’s reaction. “So, what do you think, my darlings? Should we let the human make their choice?”

The shouting increases in volume. A couple people in the audience who have lips actually whistle. The rowdy audience member from seconds earlier breaks away from security just long enough to scream their approval and attempt to rip off their pants before they get tackled to the ground.

“The audience has spoken! They want you to be united with your paramour and what kind of lovable host would I be if I didn’t give them what they want?” Mettaton takes another moment to soak up the attention from his fans before focusing back on you. “Alright, Contestant; which of our eligible bachelors have you picked?”

This is a no-brainer. “Bachelor Three, duh.”

The crowd applauds as Mettaton twirls in place. It’s hard to tell but you think the robot might be pleased with your selection as well.

“Now that you’ve made your choice, before we introduce you to your new beau, let’s get a look at the ones who got away. Say hello—and goodbye—to Bachelor One: Jerry!”

From behind a curtain on the other side of the stage, out floats a monster vaguely shaped like a lumpy alien spaceship with noodle arms. You can smell its B.O. from all the way across the stage.

Jerry gives you a quick once-over before crossing his noodle arms. “Whatever,” he scoffs, “You’re not even that cute.”

You narrow your eyes. _Rude_.

He exits the stage, stench blissfully wafting away with him, as he mumbles something about still needing a ride home.

“Wow, what a dreamboat, huh? Are you beginning to doubt your choice?”

You stare at Mettaton blankly.

“Now let’s say aloha to Bachelor Two: Burgerpants!”

The second bachelor to step out from behind the curtain is some kind of bipedal cat—or maybe a short-eared dog?—monster dressed in a generic fast-food server’s uniform. He frowns at the robot. “My name isn’t actually Burgerpants, you know.”

“So, Burgerpants,” Mettaton continues, holding his microphone out to the monster, “How does it feel to know that people find your personality to be just as hideous as your outward appearance?!”

“Whatever. As if I even care whether or not some human wants to kiss me.” His attempt at nonchalance is betrayed by the ugly tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

Burgerpants begins to make his way off stage and, even though he’s already shown he’s both capable of and willing to leave, he gets tackled to the ground by security and manhandled as the heavily-muscled bodyguard physically drags him offstage.

“Well,” Mettaton says in a sing-song voice as if this is just part of a typical workday for him, “That’s enough dwelling on what could have been! Let’s take a look at the lucky bachelor monster you picked to smooch; Bachelor Three, Napstablook!”

After a ten second delay of nobody appearing onstage, the curtain is pulled aside to reveal a nervous-looking ghost. They blink a couple times once they realize they’re in plain sight. Their gaze slowly shifts from the room full of people in front of them and over towards you and their cheeks immediately take on a rosy hue as they see you staring back.

Oh, _wow_ , they’re actually pretty cute.

After much urging from the robot host, the little ghost slowly floats their way over to your side of the stage.

“Alright, it’s time to give this audience what they want.” Mettaton extends both his arms, wrapping one around you and the other around Napstablook. They retract, pulling you and the ghost so close that your cheeks are pressed tight together. “Pucker up, you two, because it’s time…” he trails off, looking out to the audience.

“TO SMOOCH. THAT. GHOST!!!”

“Quick question: if we kiss, do I get to finally go home?”

Mettaton shrugs noncommittally. “Yeah, sure, why not?”

You attempt to shrug too but the ropes strapped tight to your body prevent any such movement. Instead, you settle for simply closing your eyes and pursing your lips.

“This is moving so fast. I… I’m sure you’re very nice but I’m not ready for this kind of commitment.”

You open your eyes and stare blankly as the ghost becomes more and more transparent until they've disappeared in thin air.

Huh. The thought of kissing you scared away an actual ghost. If that’s not a self-confidence destroyer, you don’t know what is.

“Oh shoot!” Mettaon’s grip on your shoulder tightens. “We can’t end the show without a kiss!”

You’re about to tell him you’re perfectly content to end this show without smooching anyone when Mettaton pulls you closer, squishing your face against his frame hard enough that you can feel the pattern of his buttons molding their shape into the flesh of your cheek.

“No, we can’t have that at all. It looks like you’re all in for a treat—especially, you, contestant—because without any bachelors to kiss, you’ll just have to smooch _me_.”

Before you can make some smart remark about how he doesn’t even have a mouth, he reaches for his back and flips a switch. There’s a violent explosion of smoke and glitter. You, unfortunately, happen to be misfortunate enough to have your mouth open at the time so a liberal amount of glitter lodges itself in your throat. When the smoke clears and you finish hacking up about half the glitter in your mouth, standing in the square robot’s place is what you can only describe as the gayest, long-leggiest sex-bot you have ever seen.

Oh no. It’s just like your Japanese animes.

“Human,” Metatton EX begins, staring at you with half-lidded eyes as he applies a much too generous amount of glittery lip-gloss to his face, “I know what you’re thinking: _I must be asleep because this is something out of my wildest dreams_!”

You hope you _are_ asleep so someone can wake you from this nightmare.

“But I assure you that this is all very much real.” He cups your chin, staring deeply into your eyes even as the audience hoots loudly in the background. “So, is there anything you’d like to say before I make your dreams come true?”

There’s really only one thing to say in a situation like this: “BLEEP me.” Again, the censors are on point.

“Hey now, this show is rated PG.” He winks. “Maybe after the credits roll.”

You turn away from the sex-bot to stare directly into the camera. “Please,” you beg, "If anyone out there is listening, _save me_.”

Meanwhile, miles away, Sans nestles himself against the cushions of his couch. The blue glow of the television screen illuminates his face in the otherwise dark room as a grin stretches across his features.

“I love this show.”


End file.
